Not at War Anymore

“You asked me if I thought you were good at healthy relating. I wanted to scream, ‘YES! YES!’ but you have to take off the armor. You’re not at war anymore,” a note from Liam written on the back of a receipt for a falafel wrap.

You know, sometimes, I feel like on the PTSD scale, soldiers have it easier… Well, not easier, but their experiences are easier for people to understand. “You got shot at in the war! It makes sense that you’re afraid of fireworks.” But for some of us, our “war” didn’t take place on foreign soil. Our battlefield was in our bedroom. Domestic issues. 

So when most people’s safe place is their home, how do I explain my anxiety over accidentally scratching the pan? How do I explain the extreme terror of saying the wrong thing? How do I get them to understand that my request for reassurance isn’t about being needy, but is about clarification? Because without clarification, you could make the wrong move and all of a sudden, a bomb goes off in the living room. 

My war zone wasn’t out there. It was behind closed doors. Where no one could see or witness. Where my mind wiped blank most of my childhood to protect me from the darkest parts.

Because years ago, when the psychiatrist diagnosed me with PTSD, I thought she was mistaken. Because all throughout my life, I received messages that my trauma wasn’t real trauma. It could be worse. It wasn’t that bad. Yes, they must be right. I’m mistaken. She’s mistaken. 

Cue the panic attacks. 

Oh that’s just a bit of anxiety. Totally normal and unrelated. 

Cue the nightmares. 

Happens to all of us. 

Cue the flashbacks. 

You’re overreacting. Just be positive.

Yeah, you’re right. I must be mistaken.

I’m Not At War Anymore

This year, I realized that people actually like me. Yeah and that thought is still confusing. This year I realized that people will stick around, show up, and get together with me for no apparent reason. Why do they do this? I asked myself when Romy reached out about meeting in Istanbul during her layover. Does he really want to travel with me? I thought when Atlas was excited to hear that I was going to Thailand, too. Why is he helping me? I wondered when Efe found me a new place to base in Turkey.

It just confuses me… or it confused me. I’m starting to come around to the idea. Some people like my energy and my singing. Some people don’t mind my body odor, messy hair, or bare feet. Of course others do, but there are quite a large number of people out there in the world who genuinely enjoy my company, my rambles, and my friendship. Who don’t mind listening and… they keep showing up. They keep answering the phone and they keep meeting me in different countries. They keep answering my messages and listening to my voice notes.

I’m not at war anymore

I can just speak my truth and ask for help and it’s okay. It’s no big deal, actually! I can say exactly what's on my mind and our friendship won’t be ruined by it. I can ask for support and even when I don’t, they’re going to check in on me and then they help in ways that I didn’t know that I needed. THIS IS FRICKEN MAGIC, PEOPLE! Is this what it’s like all the time? Is this what life is like for all those untraumatized/ healed people out there? Feeling secure and safe and shit? 

Damn. I wish I knew sooner. 

But I did know. I always knew and that’s why I kept trying. Because now, at the ripe age of 2 months shy of 30, I know it and I’m beginning to embody it. The physical symptoms are still there, but something different has happened during this year’s cry season: My mind and my body are separate sometimes. My body might have a physical reaction to something stressful and my mind responds, “Oh, dear body. I feel you. I understand you. Let’s wait for this sensation to pass. It’s attached to a perceived threat, not a real one.”

I’m not at war anymore

Goodness, gracious! Can you believe it?! We should have a party to celebrate. Dancing in the street with Mama Cacao pumping in our veins. Medicine music wailing from the speakers. Mmm.

I’m not at war anymore.

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